


Who are you?

by toooldtobeonhere



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Based on the trailer for the xmas special, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Rating May Change, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Victorian, Victorian!sherlolly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toooldtobeonhere/pseuds/toooldtobeonhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind the table stood (presumably) Dr Hooper. He was slight for a gentleman; his face hidden by a muslin mask and cap. His body largely covered in a long leather apron which had clearly seen many a body.</p><p>Dr Hooper looked up and exclaimed “Who are you?”</p><p>Watson and Holmes stood in silence; taken aback by the decidedly female voice.</p><p>The woman brought a bloody hand up to her face and snatched the mask and cap off.</p><p>“I demand you speak. Who are you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dr Hooper I presume?

**Author's Note:**

> No Molly in the trailer so i thought “fu*k it - i’ll make it up” (NB I am aware that’s not really her voice in the trailer but let’s imagine it is…) It kinda grew legs so I’ve had to split it (i’m a tease i know). Victorian!lock Sherlolly based on yesterday’s trailer - Enjoy :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Unbeta'd. Mistakes are mine.

Holmes looked down at the disfigured body.  He had seen many a murder but nothing quite like this. Judging by the clothes, she was a prostitute, but without them one would be hard pressed to say this was even a person.

“We’ve never seen anything like” this said Lestrade sucking nervously on his pipe.

“I’ll need a doctor” retorted Holmes.

“I think it’s a little late for that” replied Lestrade looking between Holmes and Watson. “Besides you  _have_  a doctor” he nodded towards the shorter man.

Watson had seen many casualties of war in his day, but even he was fining the scene in front of him difficult, as he pressed a handkerchief to his nose.

“Not that kind of doctor; a pathologist” said Holmes re-donning his gloves.

“You mean an undertaker?” replied Lestrade. Holmes rolled his eyes in dismay. Ignoring it Lestrade continued “there’s an undertaker in Smithfield, Hooper I think his name is. I think he’s a doctor too.  We’ve had a few from him - murder passed off as natural causes by the family - he might help”

Holmes nodded thoughtfully and strode of towards the awaiting carriage. Watson followed quickly behind him.

“Where are we going now?” he asked.

“Smithfield” replied Holmes to both the carriage driver and Watson.

“It’s the middle of the night!” cried Watson, climbing in after him.

“A good undertaker is open 24 hours a day” said Holmes taking out his pipe from his breast pocket, “death does not sleep”.

* * *

They pulled up outside a nondescript building; the sign above the door (Hooper & Family. Undertakers) was the only giveaway to the buildings true nature. Without preamble, Holmes stepped forward and pushed open the door. Apart from the tinkling of a small bell as the door opened, the premises seemed deserted. A narrow hall lead to a small front room. It appeared to be set up as some sort of office. Two gas lamps illuminated a desk. On the opposite wall sat a velvet sofa and two chairs – well-worn over the years by the presence of the families and friends of the dead. A small brass bell sat on the desk in front of a wooden sign;  _Ring for assistance_  it read. Watson strode forward and pressed the bell gently as Holmes surveyed the room.

Two other doors lead from the room. Holmes presumed (correctly) that one lead to the private quarters of the Hooper family upstairs and one – emblazoned with a brass plaque bearing the words _Do Not Enter_  – leading to…

“Where are you going!?” shouted Watson as loud as he dared as Sherlock marched forward and turned the knob. He reluctantly followed Holmes down a flight of stairs leading, ostensibly, to Dr Hooper’s mortuary room.

The stairs were shrouded in darkness, brightened only by the glow from the room below. This room – the basement – was sparsely decorated. Its bare brick walls were unadorned apart from two yellowed anatomical charts. A large wooden cabinet filled with equipment covered another. The chamber, although windowless, was brightly lit. Two free standing lamps - with some sort of mirrored collar - provided the bright light. Holmes had never seen such a contraption. It allowed the gas lamps normally diffuse light to be amplified many times and a beam to be directed where required. It seemed like Lestrade was right; Dr Hooper was the best.

In the centre of the room sat a large metal table atop of which lay a naked, rotund and very dead man. Behind the table stood (presumably) Dr Hooper. He was slight for a man; his face hidden by a muslin mask and cap. His body was largely covered in a long leather apron which had clearly seen many a body.

Dr Hooper looked up and exclaimed “who are you?”

Watson and Holmes stood in silence; taken aback by the decidedly female voice.

The woman brought a bloody hand up to her face and snatched the mask and cap off.

“I demand you speak. Who are you?”

Watson came out of his stupor first, taking off his hat when he realised he was in the presence of a woman. He looked over to Holmes who just stared with a slight smirk tugging at his lips. He elbowed him to do likewise, Holmes rolled his eyes but followed suit.

“My apologies” started Watson “we wish to talk to Dr Hooper”.

The woman covered up Mr O’Dell with a sheet and placed her mask and cap on top. Glaring at the intruders she rounded the table, removing her apron and hanging it on a hook near the large Belfast sink. She turned the water on and waited as it heated up.

“Dr Hooper is my father” she said.

Sherlock watched her intently. She was in her late 20s, perhaps 30. Her warm brown eyes had just started to show the first signs of aging. Her brown hair, curled into loose ringlets, was pinned up haphazardly; a style definitely not becoming of a lady. He arms were bare to past her elbows and dotted with blood. Her dress was a drab burgundy and many seasons out of date. It was also considerably shorter than was decent, coming as it did, to mid-calf. Sensible thought Holmes to himself, considering what probably covered this floor. Her soft curves, Sherlock noted (as had Watson he presumed, judging by his blush and pointedly diverted gaze) meant she wore no corset. Again sensible; it allowed her freedom of movement in her tasks. Her brown laced boots, stained with blood and bleach, finished her outfit. He observed her keenly as she scrubbed her hands and forearms with carbolic soap and the now steaming water.

Watson stammered, “Dr Hooper was recommended to us by Scotland Yard – we require his expertise with a…” he paused debating on divulging such distasteful information to a young lady “…a murder.”

Miss Hooper dried her hands on a towel and answered. “My father is indisposed at present. He cannot…”

“Are you a doctor?” asked Sherlock abruptly.

She looked over at the tall man with the piercing blue (or were they green?) eyes. His words held no malice or disbelief that she could be a physician;it was merely a question.

“No sir, I am just my father’s assistant.”

Holmes and Watson parted as Miss Hooper walked between them and up the stairs. Both men exchanged glances and followed her. Once back in the office she gestured for them to sit and asked, mainly out of courtesy “Would you gentlemen like tea?” She busied herself tidying paperwork from the desk “our maid has gone home for the night but…” she looked deliberately at the Grandfather clock. All three could see that it read just after 2am.

“That won’t be necessary” answered Watson “We are sorry to have bothered you at such an unseemly hour.” He bowed his head slightly in reverence. He looked over at Holmes expecting him to say something but Sherlock just continued to stare indecorously at the young woman, so Watson continued. “Could you ask your father to contact us as soon as he can?” he asked, producing a crisp white card from his jacket.

Miss Hooper took the card but did not reply.

“Good evening” said John donning his hat. “Come on!” he whispered to Holmes as he turned to the door. Holmes smiled and bowed his head slightly “Good night Miss Hooper” he said and followed Watson out the door.

As Watson climbed into the awaiting carriage, Holmes interjected “I believe I’ll walk home”.

“What?!” replied John “You do know there’s a murderer on the loose?”

“Killing me would be a trifle ambitious don’t you think?” replied Holmes with a smirk. “Also I do not believe I am his ideal demographic.”

“Fine” huffed John, “see you in the morning.”

Sherlock stood and watched the carriage disappear into the night.

* * *

Molly sat at the desk. She held the business card between her fingers and angled it towards the light.

 _Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. 221B Baker Street. London_ , it read in beautiful black script.

 _So that was the famous Sherlock Holmes!_  she thought. She smiled to herself. He was much younger and considerably more handsome than the illustrations in the Strand magazine made out. She was just about to drop the card in the bin under the desk when the bell above the door rang.

The dark figure closed the door gently behind him and asked.

“So Miss Hooper, how long have you been running your father’s business?”

 

To be continued….. ;) 


	2. My name is Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a bridging chapter. The next one will be more "exciting" ;)
> 
> P.S I've never written anything historical so it's probably riddled with errors. Sorry. Let me know what you think and if i should continue.

Molly stood as the figure removed his hat, allowing his face to come into stark relief. He was all sharp angles and porcelain skin.  

“I don’t…understand?” she mumbled.

Holmes started to take his gloves off by tugging each finger individually. She watched intently. She should have been afraid – she was, after all, alone in the middle of the night with a strange (very strange) man – but she was anything but. Her heart raced and she felt her mouth go dry; all symptoms of fear, but she knew these indicated something else.

“You know who I am don’t you?” he replied, unbuttoning his Inverness cape “so you know how I know.”

Sherlock observed the young woman closely. She didn’t appear afraid despite her dilated pupils and increased respiration. The silence between then stretched out. She was not about to answer him anytime soon.

“Your hands” he clarified. They both looked down at her hands that were clasped primly in front of her. “Your hands are rough and calloused, yet you have a maid, so it is not from domestic labour. It can only be from prolonged contact – years even - with chemicals and holding a scalpel”

Molly gripped her hands tightly in shame. They definitely weren’t her best feature.

“My mother died when I was nine” she started as Holmes walked towards the desk. “I began assisting soon after”. By the confused look on the gentleman’s face she elaborated “Just office duties to begin with but I showed an aptitude apparently”. A slight smile flickered across her face, lighting it up momentarily, making her even more beautiful.

Sherlock was taken a back for a moment; _when did I think she was beautiful?!_

“My father became ill about five years ago. The tremors mean he cannot hold a blade. I am an only child, Mr Holmes, it is my duty to care for him. Without the business we would be destitute.”

“And in that time, you have become one of the finest undertakers in London” smiled Holmes. Molly blushed at his compliment. “Why have you not gone to medical school?” he asked.

Molly reached up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. “I did apply once, but I am…unmarried” Molly flicked her eyes up to his “…and I was told I had more _pressing priorities_ at my age”. She paused. “Then my father got sick and I had to work here. Seems such a childish dream now” she laughed sardonically.

Her words made Sherlock angry. There were a few female physicians in London but they faced significant hurdles. They were met much prejudice. They were not allowed to study alongside their male colleagues and even if they qualified, their options were limited. A female surgeon was exceptionally rare, a female pathologist was unheard of.

Letting the silence hang in the air, Holmes eventually spoke. “There’s been some murders…”

“I know, I read the papers” Molly interjected. She should have been chastened at interrupting a gentleman but her forthrightness excited her. Mr Holmes smiled.

“I require…” he blinked, “ _we_ require...the expertise of a pathologist.”

Molly paused and looked around her, these walls were all she had known.

“I am free tomorrow Mr Holmes” she replied.

Sherlock turned to collect his belongings. Just before he reached the door, he pivoted back and said “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street”. He donned his hat and bowed his head briefly “Good night Miss Hooper.”

“Molly” she answered with a smile, “my name is Molly”.

Sherlock grinned back “Until tomorrow Molly.”


	3. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww thanks for all the lovely comments guys :D
> 
> Again - sorry about any glaring spelling/grammar mistakes. Also for any historical inaccuracies - I'm making this shit up tbh. Increase in rating as there's a tiny bit of naughty talk. still SFW though.
> 
> Enjoy and feel free to leave a comment - I love em :)

Molly stepped out of the carriage in front of a black door. The prominent brass numbers told her she was in the right place. Why did she feel so nervous? She was here by invitation, at his request; he needed her expertise. She knocked on the door and waited.

“Come in! Come in!” ushered the older lady who answered it. “You’ll catch your death out there.”

“I’m Miss Hooper. Mr Holmes is expecting me.”

 “Oh so you’re the reason he’s been fussing all morning!” said the woman smiling, taking Molly’s coat. Molly frowned and blushed simultaneously. “He’s upstairs” she indicated.

Molly brushed down her skirts and climbed the stairs. The door was ajar so she was unsure if to knock or not. A deep voice made the decision for her.

“Come in Miss Hooper.”

The room was a mixture of timeless elegance and utter chaos and in the centre stood Sherlock Holmes. Molly felt a rush of – what? panic? No it wasn’t that. He was even more striking in the light of day. He wore a white dress shirt and black trousers atop of which was a dark purple robe. He was dressed as if he was not expecting a guest – especially not a lady.

“Am I early Mr Holmes?” asked Molly letting her gaze run down the length of his body.

“No you’re right on time Miss Hooper. Would you like tea? My housekeeper…”

“I’m not your housekeeper!” came a cry from downstairs. Molly giggled as he marched past her onto the landing.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than eavesdrop!?” Sherlock semi-whispered down to Mrs Hudson.

“Not really dear!” came a sing-song voice. Molly couldn’t help but smile. Sherlock sighed and closed the door behind him.

“Apologies” he said. Molly noted that his (beautiful) cheekbones were spotted pink with embarrassment. She followed him into the kitchen. “Kitchen” was probably not the correct name for this room; it looked more like a laboratory. She watched as he opened cupboards at random.

“I’m sure I could rustle us up some tea” he said over his shoulder.

Molly was slightly concerned that she may be accidentally poisoned if she accepted his offer, considering the state of the kitchen and was about to decline politely when she saw it.

It stood next to the open mahogany box that housed all its extraneous pieces. It was exquisitely polished and gleamed in the disordered kitchen; clearly it was much loved.

“It’s a microscope” smiled Sherlock.

“I know” said Molly defensively.

“I don’t doubt that.”

“It’s just I’ve never seen one outside of a museum or in the plates of a book!” she said. Sherlock smiled. “There can’t be many in private hands” she asked rhetorically.

“I suppose not” he replied “I never thought about it like that.” He paused, “Would you like to look through it?”

Molly’s face lit up. He didn’t have much experience with women, but he supposed that most would not look like this when presented with a piece of scientific equipment. This realisation made his heart pound.

“May I?” gasped Molly.

Sherlock rounded the table and pulled a stool out for her to sit. Molly unbuttoned her jacket and placed it in his outstretched hand. She perched on the stool in her shirtwaist and skirt.

Sherlock took in her outfit for the first time. It was significantly finer than last night’s one, but no less practical. The line of her body had altered too – waist smaller, breasts higher - indicating that she was wearing a corset. Holmes was taken aback at the tightening in his groin. He was no teenager, why was his body betraying him as such?

“What do I do?” she asked looking up at his face.

“Have you seen blood under a microscope before? he asked reaching for a box of new glass slides.

“Never!” Molly said excitedly. She felt momentarily silly at being so excited by such an insignificant thing, but soon forgot about it when she felt him take her right hand in his.

Sherlock held her hand, palm up, in his, for was longer than was required if he were honest. He reached up to pluck the cameo broach from Molly’s chest when he heard her gasp. Looking up, he realised that she was unaware of what he was going to do. From her perspective he was holding her hand in one hand and about to grope her with the other!

He was expecting a slap, or at the very least a stern word, but she just sat there watching him with wide, expectant eyes. He took the pin and pricked her index finger.

“Ouch!” she said drawing her hand away.

“Please” he asked, holding out his hand again and Molly finally understood what he was doing. She smiled and dropped her hand back into his. He squeezed the pad of her finger until a red globule blossomed and dropped it neatly onto an awaiting slide.

“Thank you” he said letting go of her hand and placing another blank slide on top. Molly instinctively brought her finger up to her lips and sucked on it to stem the slight bleeding. Sherlock’s eyes flicked between her eyes and mouth as he watched her suck on her own finger. How could something so insignificant feel so obscene?! he thought to himself as the rigidity he felt below his waist grew tighter. Holmes coughed and brought himself out of his reverie and placed the slide on the microscope’s stage. “Look” he indicated.

Molly lent forward and looked into it. “I can’t see anything” she said leaning back.

Sherlock leant forward into her space to adjust the focus. From this position his shoulder brushed her chest and Molly could smell his aftershave. She almost fell off her stool when her mind conjured up the image of him taking her from behind across this bench.

“That should be better” he said stepping back to see Molly’s face was flushed and her pupils dilated. For a second he wondered what his looked like.

“Th...thank you” Molly stuttered and leaned forward again. The image was bright and it took a second for her eyes to adjust. When it did Molly inhaled. Pink toroid shaped globules danced in front of her as if they were alive. In a manner they were. “Erythrocytes!” she gasped.

Sherlock smiled as he watched her gaze at the image. He realised he longed to show her more if it meant he could see that smile every day. He was too busy with this thought to notice her leaping off the stool and snaking her hands round his neck.

“Thank you Mr Holmes!” she exclaimed, hugging him tightly. Sherlock was taken aback for a second but then wrapped his arms around her waist pulling her body flush with his.

That’s when she felt it. They both felt it.

Sherlock pushed Molly’s hips away from his abruptly and stammered “I’m…so…sorry…I don’t…”

He never got to finish his sentence before she was against him again, this time with her lips pressed firmly against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should the next chapter be NSFW or SFW?? - or should i do both? :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the consensus seemed to be NSFW for this chapter! (i'm so glad!). Be warned - it's total filth! I'll try and get a more SFW version up too.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but the obvious mistakes.

Sherlock took a second to realise what was happening. When he finally did his instinct was to re-wrap his arms around her slender waist and pull her back into his embrace.

Molly moaned against his mouth when she felt his firm body against hers again. She took his actions as proof of his genuine want for her so she boldly ran her tongue against the seam of his lips and he opened up beautifully.

It was Sherlock’s turn to moan when he felt her hot little tongue pressing forward. _God! What else could she do with that tongue?!_ his over-heated brain thought. Holmes prided himself on the fact he was not like other men; he was above all that biological nonsense. But right at this moment, he couldn’t form a coherent thought. His body moved of its own violation; stepping forward and pushing her against the table causing the various beakers and flasks to clank loudly.

Molly let out a little squeak as the edge of the bench bit into the small of her back but the pain was exquisite. She took the opportunity to run her hands down his back; feeling the play of his muscles under his clothes.

Sherlock reluctantly pulled his mouth from hers and let it roam down her throat but the high neck of her shirt didn’t allow him the access he desired. He reluctantly took his hands from her hips and ran them up her sides, eventually to the front of her blouse. The tiny buttons frustrated him greatly and just as he was on the brink of ripping it open, he stopped.

 “Are you alright?” she panted.

“We…we…shouldn’t do this” he whispered, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against hers, allowing himself to catch his breath.

Despite the crude jokes of Watson and the snide remarks of his brother, Sherlock was not immune to the desires of the flesh, he was just able to channel it better than most men. He was more than capable of taking care of the situation when it arose (no pun intended). In the past he had even called on the skills of a “professional”. He saw no difference between that and paying for a meal when he was hungry. But this was different. _He_ felt different. _She_ was different.

Molly felt his breath wash over her face as they stood in silence. She was 29 and on the cusp of spinsterhood; a situation that drove her father to despair. It wasn’t through want of trying. There had been one a few years ago. Thomas. He worked in a bank and was as dull as dishwater, but he was benevolent and a marriage between them would have secured her and her father’s future. Perhaps she could even attend medical school.  They were engaged 4 months later. Molly remembered the night she became a woman. She knew the mechanics of it from her anatomy books, but it wasn’t “making love” like it was described in her romance novels. More disappointingly, it wasn’t “fucking” either, like described in her copy of the Marquis de Sade’s _Justine_ that she kept hidden under the loose floorboard in her bedroom. But, she had resigned herself to an unfulfilled life until the evening she found out he had lied to his family about her true job. He’d informed them that she worked in an office because she was a “modern girl” - but naturally she would give that up upon marriage to raise a family.  Molly had confronted him and asked again about going to medical school. He laughed and said “no wife of mine will be a doctor”. Molly removed her ring and placed it on his bedside table.  “Then you shall have no wife.” She turned and left, never looking back.

“Did I do something wrong?” Molly whispered not daring to look him in the eye.

“No!...Not at all!” he laughed and Molly relaxed briefly. “It’s just that...it’s….not right of me to…take…” Sherlock stammered.

Molly tilted his chin up to look him in the eye. She had made the great Sherlock Holmes stutter!

Her soft smile eased him – she was not angry – but the smile soon turned devilish and he felt the blood rush again to his loins.

“Oh Mr Holmes” Molly replied breathily, placing the palm of her hand against his growing bulge and stroking firmly. “You worry about taking something I do not possess.”

He watched as her little white teeth bit into her rosy lip and a guttural sound rose up in his throat. All coherent thought was lost as he crashed his body back into hers. The jolt to the table caused some of the items to topple and crash this time.

“Careful of the microscope!” Molly gasped.

Sherlock laughed causing a delightful vibration against her skin “I will buy you your own Miss Hooper”. At this he grasped her arse and lifted her onto the table sweeping what was left out of the way.

“Your housekeeper will be most distressed at the mess” Molly giggled as he stepped into the space she had made by spreading her legs wide as he scrabbled at her buttons.

“She’s not really my housekeeper” he replied smiling as he continued to fumble. His impatience got the better of him and he tore at the blouse. Buttons “pinged” around the room.

“You’ll be buying me another waistshirt too!” said Molly teasingly.

Her giggling made her breasts heave against the constricting corset. He pressed his face there and licked at every inch he could reach. She moaned as he pressed her flat against the table. This allowed a little slack in it so he could un-hook the metal catches at the front. As every new inch of flesh appeared he kissed it reverently until at last it fell apart. Sherlock gazed down at the perfectly pale expanse of skin. It contrasted beautifully with her upper chest, now flushed pink with arousal and the even darker pink of her nipples. He dipped his head to take one in his mouth while his hand splayed against the other; kneading it gently.

“Oh God!” she whined, “harder!” He smiled; a gentleman never refused a lady.

It was then he realised what had been missing in all his previous sexual encounters; this voice. This sweet, innocent, filthy, pleading voice. _Christ!_ He ground his erection painfully on the edge of the table. If he wasn’t careful this would be over all too soon.

Tearing himself reluctantly away, Sherlock unbuckled her belt quickly and Molly lifted her hips so he could pull it (and her drawers) down her legs and off. Molly gasped at the coldness of the table on her backside but was soon forgotten when felt him nuzzle between her thighs.

At first she wanted to close her legs tightly – the sensation was overwhelming – Thomas had never done this. But soon she found she was spreading herself wide for him.

Sherlock barely had time to take in how beautiful she was here - the dark triangle of hair glistened with her want – before he dove forward. He nudged her open with his nose and chin before memorising her womanly landscape with his tongue.

“Fuck Molly” he murmured as he found the spot that made her keen and draw her knees up.  He had never done this before; merely read about it (his copy of _Justine_ sat not 20 feet away on the bookshelf), but if he was anything, it was a fast learner.

Molly covered her face with her arm and bit into the flesh to stop herself from screaming. She felt the familiar rush towards climax, “Sherlock…please…stop I’m going to…” she mewled.

“Good” he merely mumbled as he pushed two fingers into her. He was gentle at first but soon he found (unexpectedly he might add) the spot that made her cry out and pulse around his digits. He continued to lick and kiss her gently through her come-down until she twitched and giggled.

“Too sensitive” she twittered. Molly looked down at him; he was a sight. His lips and chin were slick with her juices and his hair (usually perfectly slicked back) was in disarray due to her incessant tugging.

She sat up and slipped off the table accidentally brushing his erection. Sherlock groaned as he’d almost forgot about how painfully engorged he was. She palmed him again through the fabric of his trousers.

“Where is your bedroom Mr Holmes?” she purred.

Sherlock was incapable of speech at this point as he took her hand and lead her down the short hall way. On entering the bedroom she sat on the bed and bent to unlace her boots.

“You are much too overdressed Mr Holmes” she added coquettishly.

She watched as he stripped off. She had seen many a naked body (albeit it dead ones) so they held little allure. Until now. He was slowly revealed to her until he was stood entirely naked in front of her. Gone was the Great Mr Holmes. Here stood Sherlock.

He stood for a moment watching her expression. His red, angry cock bobbed almost painfully as she licked her lips. He moved faster than she thought humanly possible and she found herself pinned under him in an instant. Molly kissed him hungrily and wrapped her legs around his hips.

Between kisses he whispered, “Are you sure?”

Molly answered by reaching between them and guiding him into her wet warmth.

Sherlock stilled for a moment and willed himself not to come. After a few seconds he started to move. Temperate at first but with increasing incoordination he pushed into her.

“Molly” he moaned over and over again as if her name was some kind of mantra. Her pleas of "harder", "faster", spurred him on until he felt her hand reach between them and press against the hard pearl that he had so recently lavished attention on.

The fluttering he had felt against his fingers earlier felt a hundred times more intense around his cock and it pushed him over the edge as he spilled inside of her.

They lay there, side by side, listening to each other’s breathing abate and the distant rumble of carriages on the street below.

“So…about this murder…?” Molly said rolling onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow.

 

* * *

 

 

Six days later, the man who had been butchering ladies of the night across London was in custody and Sherlock Holmes’ name was plastered across every newspaper.

Molly set the newspaper down with a wry smile and continued with her breakfast.

“Morning Miss”.

“Morning Louise” replied Molly to the maid with a smile. The young girl busied herself clearing the breakfast things away when she added “Oh, I forgot there’s mail for you downstairs.”

Molly stood and made her way to the office. On the floor lay a tea chest approximately a foot square. Atop sat a letter addressed to her. Opening the letter her hands trembled as she read the return address; _London Royal Free Hospital School of Medicine for Women_.  It requested her presence at a selection interview a week on Tuesday.

Dropping the letter on the table she pried open the container with the letter opener. Molly thought for a moment it was empty as she rummaged in the sawdust until her fingers felt the edges of a smaller package. Lifting it out carefully she set the glossy mahogany box on the desk. With unsteady fingers she opened it. Inside sat a small note. Beautifully written on expensive paper…

_To Molly_

_May your life be full of wonder._

_Yours_

_SH_

Setting the note aside she stroked her fingers across the gleaming brass casing of the microscope and smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you liked it :)


End file.
